Piano man keeps the old gang together

A weekly return to old Sorry Charlie's

By KERY MURAKAMI, P-I REPORTER

Published 9:00 pm, Friday, March 31, 2006

Photo: Mike Urban/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

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Jannie Spain of Seattle sings jazz songs with Howard Bulson at the piano on an open-mike night at The Mirabeau Room on lower Queen Anne. Patrons of the former Sorry Charlie's at the site still come in to share old, more downscale times in Seattle. less

Jannie Spain of Seattle sings jazz songs with Howard Bulson at the piano on an open-mike night at The Mirabeau Room on lower Queen Anne. Patrons of the former Sorry Charlie's at the site still come in to share ... more

Photo: Mike Urban/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Piano man keeps the old gang together

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During happy hour on a recent Monday afternoon, Babs Moser sat at her usual booth at The Mirabeau Room. And like any Monday, a bottle of Cook's champagne chilled beside her in a wine bucket.

She sat nearly in the dark, save for the circles of light swirling on the ceiling and reflecting off the disco ball and a spotlight bathing the microphone in red.

The microphone stood next to the grand piano, where a legendary piano man would accompany anyone with the chutzpah to get up and sing.

Moser's friends, all in their 60s, sat near her, studying a songbook and waiting to stand in the spotlight. They've been doing this for about 10 years, singing for one another, applauding one another, with piano man Howard Bulson on the keys.

The lower Queen Anne joint was different back when they first started gathering there. It was still the legendary dive bar Sorry Charlie's, where a fake fish hanging on the wall would cry out, "Holy mackerel!" and where the booth closest to the window at the back of the bar always smelled of urine.

When Sorry Charlie's closed in 2003 after 29 years in business, newspapers lamented the loss of another classic dive bar in Seattle, such as Ilene's Sports Bar on Broadway or the Dog House at Seventh and Bell. At the time, sterile, chic bars were multiplying like the offspring of cosmo-sipping rabbits.

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But Sorry Charlie's still manages to live on -- at least on Mondays from 5 to 9 p.m. -- when Moser and friends Bill Clymer, 68; his twin brother, Bob; and retired librarian Mike Van Mieghen, 60, come together along with other former regulars and sing with Bulson.

Monday, Moser stood at the microphone, her white, curly hair and dress with lace at the end of the sleeves bathed in red, and sang in a deep voice:

"I'm just a victim of time. Obsolete in my prime. Out-of-date and outclassed, by my past."

Moments later, Bill Clymer, who wore a white polo shirt and khakis, hugged the air as he sang, "When I was 17," and looked at Moser. She wrapped her arms around herself, returning the hug and batting her eyes.

As Clymer got off the stage, he said, "Thank you to Howard Bulson for helping us be what we dream of being."

The old regulars say Sorry Charlie's was really Bulson, the 71-year-old man at the piano, with the lines on his face and the gray suit jacket that hangs loosely over his bony frame.

"Because of Howard," 37-year-old Cindy Phillips said when asked why she started going to Sorry Charlie's and still goes back when Bulson is playing. It's also because she loves to sing. Bulson makes singers sound good, said Phillips, who has a lilt like Billie Holiday's. He plays higher or lower depending on the singer's range, letting them know if they really ought not sing a particular song.

Bulson, a modest man of few words, said, "I'm glad they do," when told what singers say of him. "But Cindy's really gotten better," he added, "because no one works as hard as her."

After Bulson finishes at The Mirabeau Room at 9 p.m. on Mondays, he heads to his next gig at the Dexter & Hayes Public House on the Westlake side of Queen Anne.

And waiting there -- Holy mackerel! -- are more of the old regulars from Sorry Charlie's. Monday, Phillips followed him there.

Former regulars Paul Ross and Linda Cook sat in one of the wooden booths facing the stage. Taking her turn at the microphone was Michelle Sawyer, yet another graduate of the Sorry Charlie's conservatory, who Bulson thinks has a voice like Karen Carpenter's. He indulges himself by asking her to sing "We've Only Just Begun."

Bulson plays sparingly when Sawyer sings, punctuating her song with occasional notes as her voice fills the small neighborhood bar. Her voice seeps out onto the street, where Hal Sutton, a 40-year-old pianist in a black fedora with swing and blues in his fingertips, is smoking. He applauds, and Sawyer, who had her eyes closed, opens them and smiles at the silent clapping she sees through the window.

On a different Monday night at Dexter & Hayes, Bergman Brooks sits at a booth explaining that he likes the music of Al Jolson and marveling that Bulson can play a Jolson tune on demand -- as well as anything else recorded from the Sinatra era through Billy Joel. Brooks discovered Bulson during the waning days of Sorry Charlie's.

The crowds who flock to hear Bulson play are smaller than they used to be at Sorry Charlie's. The old crowd has scattered, Cook said. Some show up at The Mirabeau Room, others at Dexter & Hayes, others at Martin's Off Madison, where Bulson plays Tuesday and Thursday nights. Or there's Ruby's Place in Magnolia on Friday and Saturday nights.

But in Brooks' view, Sorry Charlie's hasn't died. It's just spread. "It's kind of like a drop of water that falls and there's little droplets of Sorry Charlie's all over the place."